The Chess Game
by dhandarhil's hand
Summary: Chapter 4 PART B- The meshing of man and machine can no longer offer security but only the question....
1. Once upon a beverage

****

THE CHESS GAME

PROLOGUE

Technology. It's a word that embodies the large and little things that humans have created in order to make life slightly more user-friendly.

It is human power, something that has become part of our evolution. 

Decades pass, and this power, from airplanes to nanoscopic machines, has become our advance through the ages. But where is the ultimate culmination of human effort? What is our technological perfection? 

That is a simple question, with a simple answer. The mystery of nature, which, before the coming of man, had already put birds in the air and fish in the sea. We are trying to replicate the perfection of nature and the chaos of the universe… so why did we even bother in the first place? After basic survival, there is no reason- except that we can. So, why not? Why can't we alter the genetic code and build machines that are- almost- natural?

****

What happens when we reach perfection?

"I assure you, Jones, this is almost perfect."

It was late morning, and the sun glinted cheerily over the reflective buildings of New York City. People milled the bustling city streets, and the usual chorus of taxis and congested traffic was shot through with a multitude of conversations.

It was of quite a mild temperature, and the cafés had sprawled their tables across the pavement, hoping to ensnare hurried pedestrians lacking in breakfast. A normal day, in most people's opinion.

But 'most people' did not include Agents… especially Agents with the aroma of a hot latté invading their nostrils, and _definitely _Agents who could smell this and confidently claim that none of it- not even the chewing gum stuck to the sole of their left shoe- was real.

Agent Brown, holding the Styrofoam cup with delicate precision, accompanied his proclamation of quality with a polite look of "I went to all the trouble of getting you this and you'd better accept it, you lazy sod!" (as well as any man behind semi-opaque sunglasses can).

"You know quite comprehensively that I am lactose intolerant, Brown." Agent Jones' fingers rested on the edge of the steering wheel, and his uncanny generic appearance did little to mask the bite of pure sarcasm that, when it comes down to it, a computer program shouldn't normally possess.

His colleague considered carefully whether to be affronted, and decided against it. It was pointless to create internal conflict with another entity, unless there was something to be gained from it. 

Anyway, he spent every working moment with Jones, and knew from experience that the other Agent had a particularly sour manner when it came to arguments.

Still…

"I am well informed of that, Jones." Somehow, the slicked back hair and suit rendered the American accent indistinguishable. You can always pick an Agent- tie clips, not a hair out of place, and every moment of your life handily documented when they need it.

"I simply chose to override your petty attempt at simulating _personal flaws,_" Brown concluded, now distracted with the effects of the latté steam that was obstructing the view through his sunglasses, and added, "It is quite necessary for us to appear organic, which includes the consumption of beverages."

"I am making an individual attempt at idiosyncrasy. I am therefore obtaining an 'organic' persona without unnecessary external aide." Jones, curt as ever, returned his view to through the windshield of their car.

Within a moment, Agent Brown joined him. "If you were really trying hard, Jones, you'd say: I don't want a beverage. I'm annoyed Agent Brown thought of it first. I'm a condescending-"

Agent Jones stifled him with his trademark Blank Look, and the pair sat in silence, one contemplating the nature of this particularly long morning, the other taking a sip of the $1.50 breakfast special from Starbucks on the corner. 


	2. The bit that was supposed to be part of ...

It had been a long morning…. the apparent leader of this trio of Agents was collecting some information in the building across the street. Perhaps the reason for his position was his sensitivity to satire, surpassing even Jones when it came to finding a certain type of black humor in any of the proceedings they where involved in. It made Agent Smith a little closer to human, and made him a more likely medium for communications with the populous of the system. The 'proceedings' was their job. As instruments of the Architect, these Agents set about ridding the system of glitches- eliminating them, and all the exiles. 

They hated the exiles the most, if they had capacity to hate… humans that had discovered the truth, humans that evaded capture and termination. 

**__**

I suppose you are cogitating on the beverage you so foolishly refused? 

Agent Jones' facial muscles twitched as his companion's words were delivered directly into his ear canal, via the intra-neuro communicator (I.N.C) that was as crucial to an Agent as wearing sunglasses during inappropriate weather. Slowly, contemptuously, Agent Jones replied; using the more traditional method of vocal chords had a sort of satisfying delivery. "I do not need a beverage, Brown. you are most erratic! I feel you are not correctly analyzing the cause and effect of your words, which is improper conduct on your behalf."

"Well, Mr. Jones, I enjoy the taste. I do not care what your opinion is on the matter." Agent Jones was finally flapped out of his usual state of unflappable calm. "I BEG your pardon, Brown?" He leaned over the centre console in order to scrutinize the contentedly sipping Brown further. "I do not recall an order exacting the preface of 'Mr.' before the use of my moniker. I do not authorize it. It is most uncouth and-"

**__**

Open the door, Agent Jones. The intended scolding was left unfinished as a shadow fell across the tinted windows. Agent Smith had a tendency to make everything sound like italics, even using the I.N.C. He was standing next the passenger door and giving Jones an impenetrable look, smoothing the creaseless cuffs of his shirt and tapping a polished toe on the sidewalk.

"I see…" 

Agent Jones did have the capacity to be concise, and he flicked up the locking mechanism. Agent Smith opened the door and closed it with the precise amount of energy needed to commit such an act. He carefully placed a wad of files on the seat next to him, and did something very unusual. He sighed. Both Agents in the front seat whipped around, Brown spilling a small amount of hot coffee on himself in the process. "Jones? Brown?" They both made the slightest gesture of acknowledgement, and then: "If you will excuse the following metaphorical pun. we have a very long road ahead of us." Agent Brown considered this. "Let's get cracking then!"

"Very humanoid, Brown," Smith said approvingly. "And guess who's driving, Jones?" Agent Brown smiled widely.  
  
Agent Jones turned his head on a 45 degree angle, and gave Brown a look that could only translate to 'sit down, shut up and hang on.'  
**_  
Oh, so totally not good._**

Brisingamen felt it, like a tiny pinprick of an acupuncture needle. Like something wasn't adding up around her. Moving with unbelievable-impossible- speed that had nothing to do with muscles or strength, the young woman launched herself across the room. The city streets beckoned below, a surreal view of tiny people and their bliss in ignorance. The glass did not shatter as Brisingamen passed through it. It enveloped her, warping smoothly to allow her passage, and reformed. She touched the window sill briefly, looked 30-storeys down to bitumen and concrete, and vaulted out into the thin, chilly air.

  
  
She couldn't clearly remember when she ceased being a street-kid and started noticing that things were wrong. For Brisingamen, it was more of a part of growing up- but of course, there were certain memories that stood out from the rest. In freefall, she gracefully arranged the air around her, widening her cross-section and increasing air resistance. It was hard to commit an act such as this without alerting the staggers, and she was worried the one who'd come to see her was still in the vicinity. He'd left an amnesia- detonator in the room. She'd become refined in her skills, and it only took a little effort to cloak herself and deceive the system that she was only 1/8th of her actual weight. 

Even as she dropped slowly to earth, Brisingamen couldn't help but grin a little at her in-joke. Calling the Agents 'staggers' referred to a certain incident near the time Morpheus had discovered her… she'd never seen an Agent trip and fall flat on his face, and she couldn't resist the temptation to warp the ground just a little. He'd looked small for an Agent, which gave an illusion of harmlessness, but the 5-inch deep imprints that he'd left in the hard concrete basement floor quickly corrected her mistake. Nevertheless, it was a memory worth treasuring. (Incidentally, Agent Jones hadn't forgotten it either.)

Another little bonus of being special…of being the One-

Brisingamen hit the ground hard, and rolled into a pile of discarded egg cartons and boxes. 

The alleyway was quiet again, and she stumbled to her feet- Yeah, she'd had a good time with her status, but that was until she'd found out the truth. The vicious loop completely took away her appetite for saving the world, and Morpheus decided she wasn't suitable, just like all the other Ones before her. He'd said that there was another…someone just like her. An anomaly. A potential. Being the zealot that he was, Morpheus had a use for cowards, and that suited her fine. Brisingamen was happy now. She didn't have to save mankind- just Thomas Anderson… protect him until he was ready to do what she couldn't. She didn't have to stay in the hell that was the real world, where none of the positive sides of being a One applied.  
  
Brisingamen stepped out of the alleyway, and the pretense that was the sun's rays glittered brilliantly on her blue-tinged hair, illuminating the kimono-style bodysuit that served its purpose as a weapons cache. Her caramel-colored skin was unmarked- except for the white rabbit tattoo on her left shoulder. She was a brilliant hacker, a martial arts dojo, a sculptor of the Matrix. Brisingamen had forged these things for herself, like her name, taken from ancient Norse mythology. That was about where her belief in fate ended. The White Rabbit, they called her. After all, no one said what happened to a Two.  
  
"Stop the car," said Smith, and then he disappeared.  
  
As one being, Jones and Brown turned to their right. Pedestrians screamed, and a massive ripple effect coursed through the crowd, almost like a brick dropped into a birdbath. Mothers snatched up their children and dodged fruit stalls in a frenzy to get away, road workers and joggers scattered. "DAMMIT!" Agent Smith stood on the rapidly emptying street, and by the looks of things, this was one business man who'd read something in his newly acquired documents that he didn't like. He was a program, yes. But he was close to human in the respect that he didn't enjoy being ripped off.  
  
The sound reverberated along the skyscrapers and gridlocked cars, and three bullet holes were added to Brisingamen's collection of fabricated information. The wind gusted gently, and loose pages fluttered along the deserted sidewalk. One entangled itself amongst the folds of prim black trousers, and Agent Brown bent to disengage it.

"She…lied…" snarled the sentinel program who was developing an interesting temper tantrum. "Humans are prone to do that, sir," Brown offered, and flicked the paper away dismissively. 

He approached the fuming Agent, wrestled the smoking handgun away, and made an awkward attempt at patting Smith's hands in what he perceived as a comforting manner.

"Perhaps it would be wise if you discussed this with us?" Jones called out from the car, wishing his colleague hadn't caused a commotion such as this amongst hundreds of civilians. "In the car," supplemented Brown hopefully.  
  
Agent Smith snatched his hands away, looking like he'd dearly prefer to discuss things with his confiscated handgun.  
  
He slammed the door, and the other two wouldn't have been half surprised to seem him stamp his foot. Cautiously opening the car door again, Brown piled into the backseat on Smith's right as pedestrians started hurrying past again, carefully diverting their gaze from the tinted windows. "What were these files intended to contain?" The Agents were all squashed together like a trio of dignified sardines, generally because shoulder pads tend to devour space when in close contact with one another. Smith made a show of arranging his hands in his lap, cracking his knuckles, and baring his teeth before muttering, "Information. Morpheus. How could she have deceived...?" 

Agent Jones was tempted to say, "Very coherent, sir," but he was, after all, the littlest of the group. "You know who she is?"

"I don't…"

"Don't?" Brown's forehead was furrowed. Inconceivable. The Agents knew almost everything about everyone. Agent Smith's blue eyes flashed behind his sunglasses, and flicked his gaze to the rear vision mirror. "I don't know who she was at the moment, Brown. But, as inevitably as I will find Morpheus- I will find her."  
  
Brisingamen stumbled off the creaky excuse for public transport, and lingered until the roar of the diesel engine meandered into the distance. The sun hung like a lantern in the sky, the rays gentle on her skin. She wondered if the machines knew what soft sunlight actually felt like, and whether anything that she believed in was truly close to reality.  
  
The apartment of the White Rabbit was, for want of a better term, minimalist. Barely any furniture littered the floors, and there was a small amount of utensils in the kitchen. Her wardrobe was practically anorexic, and no possession of hers couldn't be either quickly disposed of or instantly portable if the situation demanded it. The most cluttered room of the entire place was her bedroom, where a state of the art lap-top wallowed in encrypted paperwork and ammo cartridges.

Fitting the key absently in the lock, Brisingamen pushed open the door and surveyed her clinically white walls. It was sad really, but Morpheus had ordered her to keep things simple, and she grudgingly agreed that her system of living was wise enough. She quickly entered her room, where all of her important things waited, pre- packaged in a single back-pack. The slimline computer was essential for everyday use, so if she was in a serious hurry, her last option was to take to it with her boot. The underworld persona of the White Rabbit, (not to mention her dealings with the stagger) had earned her enough cash for basic needs, so the rest of her bag was filled with efficient weapons, ammunition and communications. That was all. No personal belongings or sentimental things- the most romantic item she owned was the tattoo on her shoulder. It was all she needed to remind herself that she was an individual… and not an A.I. Brisingamen sighed, and swept a map of New York onto the floor. It was used each day to track Neo's movements, but she didn't risk marking the paper in case it was found. A lot like my life. **_Will anyone know me for what I did if I have to erase my tracks? It's not really unfair, but even_** **_so…_**

She ended the doubt by sprawling onto her bed, only to be provoked into lucid alertness by the high-pitched squeal and the blur of banded fur that blew out of the covers and through the door. The scuttling of a small quadruped echoed on the wooden floors, and Brisingamen yelled after it, "Sorry, Mike!" (The ferret wouldn't be angry with her for too long, especially as it neared dinner time.)

As she lay inert once more, Brisingamen considered how long it would be until that damned stagger realized his files were about as useful as the 'consumption of beverages'. Whatever that time was, it was moments that she- and her charge- were still safe. The relationship that she had with Neo was, absurdly, as intimate as lovers. she knew almost everything about him, and certainly more than he did about himself. The White Rabbit gave a mirthless little laugh.

Here, in this world, there was no chance of a substantial relationship… she didn't want entanglements that would be painful and worthless… but hate… that was a completely different game altogether. Brisingamen used hate like dry hay to a firestorm; enveloping the Agents and Trinity as two sides to the same coin. The coin of following rules and forcing destiny. There was no utterance of loathing that would do Brisingamen's emotions justice, yet the way in which she regarded Neo might be called love. It was selfish love, a lumbering Frankenstein's monster of relief, protectiveness, empathy and pity all plastered together. Neo knew of the White Rabbit as an enigmatic hacker, and only spared her a few moments of brief, untroubled thought. Brisingamen had made thinking constantly of him her life's work. She wondered what he would do if the roles were reversed, if he would love her in that quirky way, if he would go to the magnificent lengths to prolong her existence that she did every week.  
  
**_It's just as well he's cute…_**  
  
She could hardly complain, or her old foe Trinity might descend once more from her leather-clad cloud and scold her to death. Brisingamen gasped sharply as a vicious pain bit her in the leg. Ultra- refined reflexes were put on emergency brakes in case Mike had decided to exact his vengeance. "Oh, right." She reached into her pocket and withdrew the bloated wallet, thinking fondly of the large sum of hard cash Agent Smith had stuffed in it. "And all for a bunch of faux details about evil old-" 

The phone rang abruptly, and was just as suddenly cut off as the White Rabbit checked the caller identification, muttered "Speak of the devil," and hit SPEAKER on the unit.  
  
"Morpheus." Brisingamen always liked to initialize the conversation.   
  
"You know how this works, Rabbit…" the voice on the other end of the line was strained, yet as rich as it had always been. 

"You know what lies ahead, for it is already beginning." The meaty silence that book ended his voice was excruciating as Brisingamen tried hard to grapple with the implications of that simple remark.

**__**

Already? But it's too soon! How can they... She was walking the edge once more, a puerile limbo between hopelessness and aspiration.

"Now? How did they-" 

" Ah, little Rabbit. 'How' is not so much the key, but 'when'. When will they come for you? Soon, Rabbit, soon. You're a target, and you know what comes next." 

Brisingamen was gripping the phone so hard she was probably making imprints.

"Morpheus, if I lead them away, how can I protect him?" The line's silence almost seemed mocking.

"You are the One, White Rabbit. For now, you must play the part." Using one of Brisingamen's most hated phrases, the surreal connection to the truth of the world cut off, leaving her alone. "No, no, no," she cursed, and began scanning the room, evaluating what should be taken, and how she would weave her web of lies.  


  
The next morning, at exactly 6:00, the One left her apartment for the final time. 

The black back-pack carried her essential items, but that didn't mean it wasn't heavy. After arranging for Mike to be looked after, Brisingamen planted some clues to her whereabouts around the rooms in a fashion that indicated a professional who'd slipped up, hopefully on the contrary to a professional just being, well, **_professional._**

She was ready because she had to be. That was all. 

Walking briskly against the sharpened air, the White Rabbit thought sympathetically of her orderly belongings that were left behind, and felt the brush of unease on her neck. It was one hell of a risk to take, but as the crows quarreled overhead, she reached out a metaphorical hand to grab it. The dank atmosphere was no friendlier, but Brisingamen still enjoyed a burst of delight when she remembered that this was her last mediocre watchdog job before the true extrication came up. When Neo was fresh for unplugging, Brisingamen would be as far away from any of the free minds as she possibly could. Let them fight their war… she'd have done her time, so there was nothing they could do to evangelize. She reached a secluded area in which she often loitered until Neo made his morning debut. Quite the computer geek, Thomas Anderson's relations with a respectable company had possibly been the most tedious, if not comfortable thing she'd ever dedicated a credible section of her life to. It was time to reload the shotgun, and take to the next phase of her part in destiny. 

The buildings stood stark in their foundations and she tightened the straps on her backpack, Brisingamen engrossed herself in the epicurean dream of some time ago, when Agents were small, unsuspecting and suddenly deprived of their irreverent dignity.  
  
Of course, all the smugness in the world couldn't eliminate the uneasy feeling that Brisingamen got when she actually considered what Jones might do to her if he did remember exactly who she was. She was desperately trying to skirt a deep inquiry into why that particular Agent stood out in her mind when a tall Asiatic young man with innocent, deer-esque eyes wandered blithely from an adjacent street. The butt of an automatic Uzi prodded into Brisingamen's well-clad hip as she waited for Neo to open up a safe amount of distance in front of her. Same strategy as it had always been, but everything was about to change. She breathed a lungful of false oxygen, and fell into step in the shadows… One after the other.  
  
Parallels. The System is full of them, and with the immense vestiges of precision the Agents used to go about their concept of 'life', it was ironic that one was existent for them and the seeds of their downfall. Whilst Neo trudged up the crowded path to his 9 to 5, he was being dogged by one of the deadliest free minds in the history of the Matrix. On the other end of the spectrum, a certain young program was engaged in the horrifyingly human behavior of chewing his fingernails. In a small cubicle located on the other side of the city, Jones took another nibble at his pinkie finger, and typed multiple trace commands at a speed of 350 WPM. The white light hung harshly overhead, and the Agent lifted his gaze around the room. 

The time he had spent interacting with humans had taught him things that he sometimes yearned to unlearn. Once, an Agent such as himself would have been the epitome of imperturbability. Now, the internal upgrade function built into the code forced such unwanted 'emotions' such as doubt and irritation, things that Jones, personally, dreaded. And that was the whole point! Occurrences, reactions. Jones shook his head, staring dully at the screen. The I.N.C lay dormant in his ear, and the results were completely null, no matter what angle Jones approached the task from. 

**__**

I'm… lonely. Agent Jones' digits froze over the keys as that treasonous, unbidden thought rose up in his digital psyche. 

**_I do not process this human conception of isolation and/or extradition/rejection/ exile. Exile does not apply in the context of this example._** **_Is the reaction to auxiliary input a malfunction? Does this affect the other applications? _**

GET ON WITH YOUR WORK.

Jones closed off his small self-analysis executable, no more satisfied than he was before. But rogue ideas kept on forming while he continued, until he could no longer restrain his own deduction. He let the cerebral data slip out onto his tongue. "Is this what it means to be human?"  
  
"What is he doing?" Agent Smith had fed a mixture of anxiety, anticipation and plain old impatience into his functioning, the result being an attitude labeled, in clear, bold titling: **PEEVED.**

"I believe," replied Agent Brown, after a small stint of thought, "he is conducting a video trace regarding a possible anomaly on the closed circuit system of a company called 'NYCorp.'" Agent Smith pivoted subtly on his heel, and broadcasted such a look of sheer paltriness at Brown that the other Agent visibly wilted under the weight of raw sarcasm. "B R O W N…" 

" I'm 78.956 percent certain that Agent Jones is not being extraneous in his method," Brown quickly countered, his voice suddenly acquiring a lovely tremolo quality. "Sir," he added, a nervous tic in his arm adding that extra pinch of groveling reverence. 


	3. Down to business

With meticulous attention to detail, the two Agents weighed up Smith's barb regarding Jones' lack of results, and decided that although harsh, the other program was savoring his position of authority whilst attempting a difficult practical task. This conclusion was especially reinforced after Agent Smith allowed his colleagues a few brief (and somewhat self- satisfied) crumbs of his location scan discoveries. Her name was 'The White Rabbit' and thusly 'quite interesting'. She was 'dangerous and connected to the most wanted Morpheus'. Also, 'if Jones does not do something constructive about the offending hair strands he will forced into a small commercial business that maintains and grooms young men with disorderly haircuts'. The heavy gesture of doubt hung like a sandbag on fraying rope above Jones' head, and Brown could read his thoughts as one would a book. This is why both were equally surprised when the taller Agent reached out an impulsive hand and smoothed Jones' ever-clean, brown-like-the-colour-of- small-rodents hair. "A remark such as what the hell are you doing may suit this occasion," Jones said, looking with intense disbelief into the other Agent's slightly more elevated face. "I do not approve of Agent Smith's suggestion of potential servitude in human hair care," replied Brown in the semblance of near horror. He couldn't seem to restrain the urge, and the tiny act of humanity was so unlike an A.I that the Matrix had ever seen that neither could assimilate what exactly was happening to them. Jones, who had been visibly bristling under his tidy black jacket, seemed to be stunned into staring. Staring at the perfect -even beautiful- replica of a human hand, complete with realistic grooves and skin blemishes. Staring at the arm attached to that amazing hand, moving with the suggestion of various muscular bundles just below the surface. Staring, finally, at the chiseled and near-identical somber features of Agent Brown, an imposing figure with a gruff tone and dutiful demeanor. If Jones was much into anthropomorphism he'd liken his colleague to the sorts of trusty canine companions that humans often sought solace in. To assume an Agent was in any way cute or cuddly was either the irrational passion of the completely insane fan of anything in suits or an opinion held by those soon to be dead. If Agent Brown was analyzed for his dog-ness, the result would be a well-groomed purebred Alsatian. Jones, a small yet effective Dachshund. and Smith, a deceitfully calm hound with a baleful glare and a tendency to tear an enemy's throat out. "Why have you not withdrawn your awry limb?" Jones centered his willpower on Brown, using both the I.N.C and his vocal chords to force his point. (Thankfully Agent Smith was too absorbed in his work to be picking up the conversation; otherwise, it'd be the barber shop for sure.) When Brown made no attempt to move away, neither did Jones, and the pair were in a curious kind of cul-de-sac of action. "I don't believe you to be incompetent," offered Brown. "That is encouraging; please do not overexert yourself with support, Brown!" Brown looked mildly put out, and he glanced uncertainly at his overly sarcastic companion, trying to assess the mixed signals Jones was radiating and whether to comment on the wonderful sensation of soft, humanoid hair underneath the touch receptors in his fingertips. Instead, the two Agents gazed passively through standard issue shades and contemplated one another's motives until the high frequency hum of a Communicator beacon bored into the back of their collective skulls.   
  
Brown. Jones. I have discovered something of interest. transfer to my position immediately. Ah. Transfer. That was something an Agent could get his head around. Jones and Brown shared one last luxurious glance and a sharp electronic buzz consumed the Agents, the System devouring their entities with a couple of clipping errors and sparks. Where the pair had been standing was a duo of extremely nauseous security guards with cloned splitting migraines and just the right chunk of memory missing.  
  
Meanwhile, a pair of joggers who made the mistake of crossing NYCorp's ground floor car park never knew what hit them. Skin bubbled and contorted, individuality and distinction twisting and fading as the two Agents transferred their digital selves into host programs. After a few seconds of painful warping, two crisp black suits crossed the pockmarked concrete to where a stately silhouette stood motionless, inexplicably poised in an intense observation of something, much like the posture of a hawk tracing every detail of its prey before making the kill.  
  
"We are in luck, colleagues."  
  
Brisingamen, on the other hand, would beg to differ. Luck, she would say, has absolutely nothing to do with it. Especially in this case. Tall, graceful and under observation. not the sort of observation a person would welcome; the Agents watched attentively as the current One picked her way through the masses, the laziness of the heat casting a soporific spell on everyone but the hunters/ hunted. The White Rabbit's visual appearance matched the trace stills magnificently, and her steady meander was brimming with confidence and ease. Although Brisingamen's last shift was over, work wasn't through with her yet. A suspended droplet of time, linear and yet here, in the Matrix, time is/was/will be volatile. Malleable. The masters of an insidious puppet show that millions called life were the ones who shaped the System, moved and stretched the rules and regulations of the grand illusion. It was so easy to slide back into the mirage of normality. The Matrix was a masterpiece, of course! Who could not be impressed with the calculated simulation and efficient power harvesting that the machines created? But why is it that origins are always forgotten, that the child must turn upon the creator and curse they whose image has been emulated? Perhaps the human race has a lot to answer for.  
  
Brisingamen was still weaving through the crowded streets, keeping her head down. She was thinking about all the people bumping or brushing past her, the lives they led, and how different her own was. They had a welcoming family and warm bed to go home to. She had a ferret and a large chip on her shoulder. All her years of knowing the truth hadn't taken the edge of this hard fact; it was something she both loathed and tolerated. It was now that the Agents made their final evolution, emerging from the shadows of the car park like butterflies from a chrysalis. The searching was over (and Jones was presumably into more comfortable territory) as the ultimate hunters changed gears for their favorite part of proceedings. Agent Smith reached into the yellow silk-lined depths of his jacket. On withdrawal of his hand, a mildly heavy instrument of destruction sat neatly in his grasp. He flexed his muscles, and there was a sharp click as the safety was disabled.  
  
The chess game had well and truly begun. 


	4. Reflections of humanity PART B NOW UP

Everything in life was an illusion. If Brisingamen had to write a quote on her tombstone, that'd be it.

The deceptive calm of the throng around her was a dangerous mirage. Aware of this, the One kept her subconscious on edge whilst she thought somewhat wistfully of Neo.

Watching from a distance as he passed through the transparent sliding doors, she noted the dogged stride, roughly gelled hair and a briefcase that was forever banging against his legs.

She wanted to call out the name that so many people depended on, the name of the person who would do what she must never. _Neo!_

He walked by, oblivious, and the White Rabbit's thoughts remained her own as he was swallowed up by the commuters, beyond the reach of her voice.

The cogs of Brisingamen's plan were slowly creaking to life… now she'd have a bit of a wait until the staggers found her planted info and came after her. The whole premise was totally insane. No person with intentions of self-preservation would actually invite Agent attentions. She may as well wear a small neon sign which read 'I've been unplugged'. 

The young woman stood fairly tall amongst the crowd, wearing the same kimono top as she was during her last Agent encounter. This time, a pair of cargo pants and hiking boots, but that hardly dulled her conspicuous appearance. 

At the end of the street loomed quite suddenly the NYCorp hi-rise. Brisingamen's breezy meander faltered. She wondered if the tiny tendril of alarm coiling around her heart was simply an artifact from when she'd dived out of one of the building's windows. 

The harrowing ache grew, dragging itself from the back of Brisingamen's mind. It slithered through the burble of nervous analysis, and when its host saw the distorted minature of a city street reflected in opaque black sunglasses, it became a bloated spectre of warning, hammering on the insides of the skull in which it was contained.

"Oh holy #@&*!!!!" was all that Brisingamen could manage, and the plan went to hell, dissolved to ashes. She felt her pulse triple, her mind going into overload… the world sharpened into painful focus, sunlight carving patterns into a black suit jacket as it stepped forward. Arm raising. 

Stay, fight, die.

Run, escape, live.

Maybe.

The White Rabbit gathered all her gibbering thoughts inside, the System running alongside her, brushing and bounding with rules and limits. Maybe she was pivoting faster than she'd ever done before. Maybe Agent Jones was somehow contemplating a cat-and-mouse game before he pulled the trigger. That was the wonderful thing about the Matrix: it was all about the _maybe_. 

Agent Jones was in a machine's state of ecstasy. Here was the very same human who had caused him humiliation in the past. He tasted the bittersweet tang of revenge and wanted more. 

Moving out of perfect synchrony with his colleagues, gun clenched tightly in hand, Jones launched himself after his prey, the air resistance ruffling his hair as he accelerated. 

Brisingamen had noted in a sliver of a second who he was, how much he wanted to kill her and _the pain that would occur if she ran into the lamppost directly in front of her!_

Dodging it with eye-watering agility, the One barely spared her fond memories another thought… feet pounding into the pavement, people staring dumbstruck, the omnipresent pace of him behind her; Agent Jones was branding new memories with every breath she drew.

It was like running through the fabric of darkness, where nothing seems real to the senses, every movement a mockery of the truth, each small breath a sickeningly crafted lie. 

The illusion was stretched thin, the veil beginning to lift from Brisingamen's mind as she ducked, weaved and generally avoided the death hiss of bullets and her fellow digital projections. She was faltering, stumbling into a narrow path behind one of the shopping malls, and the world threatened to crumble away. 

Cornered! A whole list of profanity welled up to the surface of the White Rabbit's shifting thoughts, the measured footfalls of a singular Agent hammering fear and adrenaline into her psyche.

"Not now, not now, not…" Eyes closed, tears streaming with the One's mantra of denial. She could almost break through. Her starved lungs sucked in nothing, the sudden end to the alley blurring into flashbacks and then-

Then, the Construct shattered, spliced in two.

__

A secluded room, hidden by service pipes and life-support equipment. Zion's population never questioned what lay beyond the heavy, vacuum- sealed synthsteel door.

Inside, an artificially regulated atmosphere houses a system modeled on the very thing that the city was built to escape.

Tangled wires and an intravenous input monitor, blinking on and off in the clinical blue light. A UV generator reveals the purpose for such an insidious mockery of the machine's enslavement pods…

The Matrix is not built to function under these conditions. It clings, still coursing into her mind like a trickle of water. She opens her eyes into fluid, harsh blue light glaring into eyes that haven't been used for a long time, the frosted interior of the cyrogenic cradle tight around her form. 

Dujour never wanted to wake from the dream world, never wanted to cease being Brisingamen. But she hadn't conceived that she could push the boundaries this far, a monstrous union of man and machine. Both worlds her own, fluttering in and out of the System and reality, two parallel perceptions. A kind of wretched limbo. Dujour/Brisingamen felt her insides shudder in both planes, her vision a corrupted union of the Matrix feed and her true eyes.

She would have to make a choice. 

Agent Jones halted perfectly. No skid or unnecessary friction arose from his shiny shoed feet, and his arithlogic unit system launched smoothly. 

Fuzzy logic was the apex of Agent refinement. The ability to reason like a human being was the most powerful tool a machine could ever obtain. Unfortunately, refinement is never absolute.

-_overflow error, unknown malfunction has occurred. Pending * * * * *_

The air was tortured, and the figure of his target was flickering in sections, the code slightly slow to knit up the unraveling threads of mirage. Jones vacillated, gun clutched waveringly in his hand. His rational analysis was completely unhelpful, and the Agent stepped slowly closer, making the final move that would ultimately bring him too far into her world, beyond the deception that his kind had wrought upon humanity.

He saw the brick wall next to him introvert into a rippling whorl, and he saw it as a super-being, an enhanced Agent, for what could have been the last time.

Dujour centered her will, desperation and disbelief and turned back. Her eyelids snapped shut again, the blue fuzz gone. The Matrix took her, enveloping her in a violent rush of readjustment and reconfiguration.

Brisingamen forced herself into the System with such strength that a freak of encoding came to pass, one that was never written to occur or exist. The Matrix repackaged the White Rabbit, collating digital attributes and applying them as per usual… but her original orientation was precisely were Jones was standing. 

Unable to assimilate why two entities would be sharing a singular bounding, the code processed them as one, distributing the physical and kinetic limitation of a 'normal' human onto both. Generic details like blood and brains were filled in, the regular procedure for digital projections. Of course, memory and personality was preserved, which is why free minds could come and go as they pleased.

The phrase 'there's a glitch in the Matrix' was a serious, serious understatement.

Brisingamen, upon finding herself deposited neatly a hair's breadth from a hated stagger, saw it as quite acceptable to ram her fist into his face.

She'd seen it all… or so she'd thought. Entire bodies simply shifting, breakneck reflexes, uncanny tracking ability. Enviable talent, in other words. The One was a little blasé with the whole 'if you see an Agent, run like hell, or, if you'd prefer, be smeared all over the sidewalk' theory. Agents were just glorified clumps of symbols with a pretty CG sheen and a penchant for power dressing.

This was the way Brisingamen lived. This was her code of conduct.

Right until the point that Agent Jones- emphasis, _Agent _Jones- was hit in the delicately structured nose and felt complete, indescribable _pain_… and a tiny trickle of crimson blood, escaping his brand new veins, trembled timorously on a patch of previously spotless skin.

Brisingamen's hand, bearing a lethal switchblade, ground to a split-second halt in thin air.

"What," she said in slow, uncomprehending tones, "in the name of all things still sane, are you?"

Agent Jones, stifled by the sensory assault of thick emotions and sudden awareness of a pulse – not the half-baked, clinical endowment of an Agent program, but the full human package- dragged his sunglasses off his face and licked his lips. He relished the feeling of saliva on facial tissue, and thought to himself.

" That's an engaging question, human female," Jones managed, the bite of her knuckles not quite forgotten. "But I have always been as you are."

Brisingamen couldn't believe this conversation, wouldn't accept it, just stepped back desperately and croaked, "And what is that, stagger?"

The Agent clutched his nose against the agony and blinked savagely. It took a few moments but eventually it came. He regarded her coolly.

"_We are our own downfall, our own mistake… we are reflections of humanity."_

The story begins where the line between man and machine ends. When Brisingamen's mind was, for a brief moment, fooled by his expression and the fall of his eyelids, the line was crossed. And the story begins.

****

** If you like the sound of this story, have a look at the next story in what is becoming suspiciously like a series—'Crossing the Line' will either be up soon or is up already.

-DH


End file.
